Wheels on the bus go something something something

I just hope one of my fellow passengers has some safety scissors, 'cause I need a haircut in the worst way. And that would definitely be the worst way to get one.

Chica Mojo

If this one sounds familiar, it's because I posted an older version of it with an odd video a couple of years ago. The vocals are all redone on this one, and it's the full length instead of the abbreviated one that accompanied the video.

***************************

***************************

Mommy queerest

Yesterday, I had a dream that I was pregnant.

Did I say dream? I meant nightmare. Once I awoke, it took me a good half hour to shake off the feelings of dread and panic.

Deep terror aside, it's an absurd notion because:

a) Becoming pregnant would require my engaging in sex with someone besides myself;

and

b) The kind of sex I like to have doesn't generally result in pregnancy, unless someone brings along a jar of David Crosby's jizz.

Since no one I know is on one-eyed-handshake terms with Mr. Crosby, I can assume I'm safe for the moment.

So what brought on this incredibly unlikely and scream-inducing bout with my subconscious? It's hard to say, exactly. I often sleep with the TV on, so it's possible some knocked-up bitch's drama on the screen was leaking through into my sleeping brain. It's not like I have some secret longing to be a mother. In fact, the very thought of it makes me want to guzzle a six pack and throw darts at a giant inflatable penis. My maternal instinct extends as far as my cats, and even then, I draw the line at breastfeeding.

Don't get me wrong; I don't dislike (most) children. In fact, I get on quite well with the crayons-and-Play-Doh set. I'm probably not any more mature than the average fourth grader. But when I've reached my limit, I've reached my limit, and it's essential to me that I'm able to make a graceful escape when that time comes, to retreat to my sophisticated adult world of drinking beer, watching reality TV, dressing my cats as hookers, and having the Play-Doh all to myself. When it comes time to eat, I don't want to be sharing my dip with someone who's probably just had his or her fingers knuckle deep in a nostril before reaching into the chip bag. And if I had my own kid, people would likely look down on me if I didn't change a diaper now and then. Fuck that - I've never changed a diaper in my life, and I intend to continue that trend until I reach an age where I have to start changing my own diapers. Unless I can con some hot little nurse into doing it for me.

At least at my age, and being single now, people have finally stopped asking me when I'm going to have a baby, as if I've been playing the overture all my life and everyone is waiting for Act I to start, wherein I push a 9-pound squirming human out of my screaming lady bits, let it maul my nipples mercilessly for a couple of years, and am thus fulfilled as a woman, finally. You know what? I think I'll just go stand over there, where the man batter isn't flying around the room. Thanks.

Just to be on the safe side, though, from now on, I'm using a condom when I masturbate.

Solos and bandaids are for pussies

Aside from cutting the bejeezus out of my finger and then bleeding heavily enough to warrant taping a tampon to my hand, I've finally set up my recording studio and begun to use it. This song, "Ain't That Easy", is one I wrote years ago but never recorded until now. Listen and discuss amongst yourselves while I check to see if that flap of skin on the pad of my finger has stayed in place.

Some things never change

This is what Thirteen was doing shortly after I adopted him:




I thought he would grow out of his kittenish need to blog about every detail of his life.

I was wrong, as this recent photo proves:




He may be bigger, and he may have upgraded his laptop, but in all honesty, his content still sucks. He has no idea of when to use "me" and "I."

(I'm just jealous because he sells more ad space than I do.)

Wind tunnel

My cats like to play. All three of them. Yes, even Eeyore, at approximately 19 years old, likes to bat at a string or a puffball when the mood strikes him, frisky old boy that he is.

One of their favorite pastimes has been running in and out of a blue nylon tube that I acquired shortly after moving here. It's always sat somewhere in the living room, and it's fun to throw toys in there and watch the kitties scramble in after them.

Last week, when Squirl was over, I picked up the tube and noted that one of my babies had unceremoniously puked inside, leaving a rather large hairball as a souvenir of a meal not quite digested. Of course I had to find it with company present. Way to keep house, slob girl!

I set it up in the kitchen, thinking to clean it out when I wasn't embroiled in a General Hospital marathon, and would have liked nothing better than to've not thought about it again until my sister was safely on her merry way. Of course, Thirteen was having none of that, and he was determined to knock it over for the purpose of irritating/embarrassing me by running through the puke. After his fourth or fifth round of "Let's annoy Mommy!", Squirl picked up the tube and set it on the porch. Take that, naughty cat!

After the shows had been watched and Squirl had departed, the puke tube was the last thing on my mind, so I let that fucker sit on the porch. What harm could there be in that?

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of a fierce wind howling outside my window, and my first thought was, Shit, I'd better grab that tube and bring it inside before it blows into the yard. So I threw on my slippers and headed for the door, in all my bedhead-and-jammie-pants glory.

It was gone. I looked in my yard, in my driveway...the fucker was nowhere to be seen. All I could think of was some neighbor, spying a curious blue tunnel that had suddenly appeared in their yard, picking it up for examination, and then flinging it aside with a resounding "EWWWWWW!"

No, I sure as hell didn't go looking for it. The thing is made of kite-like material, so who the fuck knows where it ended up? Somehow, I didn't think it would do my neighborhood standing any good to claim it at that point.

Oops.

Playing post office with the monkey

So, let me get this out of the way first: Yes, I'm one of those people. I wait until April 15 to mail my tax returns. Let's just call it my rebellious nature, instead of what it really is (egregious procrastination). Hey, listen - it's my blog, so we'll call it my way. Who's tellin' this damned story, anyway?

Now, where was I? Oh, yeah - the post office. I believe they even stay open until midnight today, just because there are legions of people just like me, people who woke up this morning and said, "Holy fuck! I've gotta mail in my taxes today!" and then soiled their drawers.

I was expecting a circus at the post office when I got there, but really, I've seen it a lot busier on other, non-taxing days. Nonetheless, there were lots of extra workers posted all around to make sure no one would bust a vein when making the last-minute dash. I had need of some stamps, and as I approached the self-service dispenser, a nice lady came over to guide me through the touch-screen jungle.

As she explained the process to me, I was juggling my keys from hand to hand, trying to get out my wallet. This is on my key chain:



Why yes, I do have a monkey Pez dispenser on my key chain. If this surprises you, then you must be new here. So, hi! Nice to meetcha. Just remember that, in my world, monkey equals vagina. A vagina that dispenses candy. Everyone wins!

The nice post-office lady noticed my Pez dispenser, and we had the following conversation:

Nice lady: Oh, you have a monkey!

Evil me: Yup, I never go anywhere without my monkey.

Nice lady: Well, everybody likes monkeys!

Me: I have found that to be absolutely true. Who doesn't love a monkey?

Nice lady: I'll bet you get a lot of comments on your monkey.

Me: Yeah, people do tend to notice my monkey.

Nice lady: I guess I wouldn't want a real one, though.

Me: I suppose...they throw things.

Nice lady: And they drop down on you!

(Stamp transaction continues, monkey free for the moment, though I am unable to stop thinking about monkeys dropping down on me.)

Me: Thank you for your help!

Nice lady: Have a great day, and take care of your monkey!

Me: (Stuffing stamps in my purse and trying not to collapse in tears of laughter) You do the same.

It just goes to show that monkeys bring people together.

Oh, and if your taxes aren't in the mail by now, you and your monkey are so fucked.

The white paw of gayness

When he pooped on his tuxedo
Friday was dismayed;
He's just too fastidious
To let it stay that way.
He groomed and groomed with all his might
'Til glossy black and gleaming white
Was all you saw on little mister
Poster cat for gay.

Forget Stacy's mom - Stacy's got it goin' on

Meet my future wife, Stacy London.

Dear Stacy,

You have no idea who I am, but you should find out quickly, as we are meant to be together. Trust me on this one.

We complement each other so well. You're cheeky, and I'm twisted. You're fashionable, and I'm desperately in need of help choosing clothing that doesn't make me look like Joey Ramone. You're gorgeous, and I'm...passable on a dark night. We're both Geminis! It's fate, I'm telling you, blisters-in-the-hot-sun fate.

Ultimately, our romance hinges on one thing:

I like you. Do you like me?

(Check one)

__ Yes

__ No

Please answer as soon as possible so that I can begin to plan our glorious honeymoon at Motel 6.

Delusionally yours (until that restraining order reaches my hands),

Katy "What really, really not to wear" Barzedor

Lazy Bucky's quickies

• Project Runway is moving to Lifetime Network? Dear lord, now I need to stop sending hate mail to Lifetime. Maybe they got tired of being the spokeschannel for weepy bitches.
  
  
• Last night, I dreamed that I was at a big food festival. I was carrying a plate of chow and a glass of beer, and walking in high heels (I told you it was a dream). When the ground turned to plexiglass under my feet, of course I slipped and fell...but didn't spill my beer! I guess even in my dreams, I can keep my priorities straight.
  
  
• Eeyore just grabbed a partial potato chip out of my hand and happily ate it. I haven't seen him that excited about my food since he realized that there is tuna in those pouches I open.
  
  
• Sweeney Todd gives a whole new meaning to Manwich.
  
  
• I love cream cheese, but I detest cheesecake. Go figure.
  
  
• Right now, I'd like to viciously stab the silly-ass balloon that is the romantic myth of the starving artist. I find no inspiration in being broke. It's neither cool nor hip to have no idea where the next dollar is coming from. In fact, being unemployed and having no income has had the effect of hollowing me out, artistically speaking. Once somebody hires me, I'm sure there are a million ideas that are hiding under my panic, waiting to be released by a regular paycheck. Until then, you'll get lame lists like this from me.
  

Dream within a dream

For the past few weeks, I've been having extremely vivid, bizarre dreams. Some are particularly disturbing, but most of them are just downright weird, even for me.

One thing's for sure: I watch entirely too much Bravo channel. Last weekend, I dreamed that I was in a class taught by Sweet P from Project Runway. We needed to smuggle her out of the building, so I put her in a towel and wore the towel on my head, and then we escaped on a motorcycle. Now, that's not to say I wouldn't hang out with Sweet P, because she rocks, but I seriously doubt I could wear an adult woman on my head, much less convincingly conceal her with a bath towel. And there is no way in hell I would drive or even ride on a motorcycle.

Earlier this week, I had a dream that I was (I'm gagging just writing this) making out with Ben from Make Me a Supermodel. Dammit, there are models on there I'd jump on in a second, and my dreams betray me by delivering the decidedly un-sexy prison guard instead. What's next? Sweet monkey love with Miguel from Top Chef? That thought makes me want to stay awake forever. Somebody make me some espresso and fetch some sturdy toothpicks to hold my eyes open!

Last night, I had my Top Chef dream. I'm thanking my lucky charms that no sex was involved. Let's face it - I'd rather fuck the food than most of the chefs who appear on that show. No, in my dream, I was a contestant on the show (because I'm such a wizard in the kitchen; I can punch those microwave buttons like nobody's damned business) in some future season, where they are obviously desperate for participants, or they want the judges to die from my disgusting cuisine. Hey, I didn't set up the conditions - my subconscious took care of that.

In any case, there I was in the house with all the other chefs. It was not the greatest house in the world, kind of a borderline-ramshackle country house (although it was all city out the front door...I'm not going to pretend that any of this makes sense). Unlike the real show, we each had our own room, so I was alone when I went to bed the first night. As soon as I'd settled into bed, I looked down to see the covers being pulled off of me, and then felt my legs being lifted up in the air. Oh, yeah; they put us in a haunted house. I'm not sure what my visiting ghost hoped to achieve with that odd display of power, but it didn't do a thing to scare me off. The next morning, I came downstairs with the other contestants and asked if anyone else had experienced any spirit antics (several had). No one seemed particularly put off by it. Yeah, we culinary experts are a tough-ass bunch. We carry spatulas and we're not afraid to swing those fuckers.

Another chef was making cherry pancakes, so I volunteered to do the dishes. The ghost thing was pretty far out; my volunteering to do the dishes took the dream right into the realm of the ridiculous. After breakfast, I was hanging around the back of the kitchen, kind of assessing the amount of work I had in front of me in the sink. Suddenly, one of the guys started stomping something and making disgusted noises. He then announced that we had cockroaches.

Okay, I could survive the ghostie leg lifts without flinching. But as soon as the word "cockroaches" left the guy's mouth, I freaked the fuck OUT. The ever-present cameramen were digging that, because you know those reality shows will just have to work to manufacture drama if it doesn't really happen. I was bringing the drama on a silver platter, with a heapin' helpin' of hysteria. I was acting like such a...such a girl. However, I was not alone in my demand that we be moved into a different house. There was much bitching that the last batch of chefs were put up in near-palatial digs in Chicago and we'd been hustled into this roach-ridden dump.

Some suits showed up to assess the situation, and while they made it clear that they thought we were being huge babies by demanding to move, they agreed to find us a better house. As we prepped for the relocation, it was like I was packing my whole house instead of just a suitcase full of clothing. I was in a hurry to get the hell out of there, so I was just picking and choosing what would come with me. Every time I thought I was finished, I'd find more notebooks, and anyone who knows me knows my notebooks must come with me.

It was about at that point that Friday woke me up with a cold nose to my cheek and a bite on my chin. The imagery in my dream was so vivid that it took me a little while to shake it off (and to get Friday to stop nibbling on my face). I got up, drank some water, and watched a little TV (will I never learn?) before I crawled back under the covers. Surely I'd dreamed myself out for the night, right?

Nuh unh.

If writing a blog about blogging is meta-blogging, is having a dream about your dream considered meta-dreaming? Because that's what I did. I started dreaming that I was recounting my odd Top Chef dream to Squirl. I just couldn't get away from that stupid buggy farmhouse, even in a subsequent dream. I was quite glad when Friday woke me up from that dream, and decided it was a bad idea to go back to bed.

So now you've had a quick peek into my warped subconscious. Sorry to grab you by the hand, all trusting and shit, and then take you into the tarpit of my mind. Helluva thing to do to my friends.

Just be glad I didn't recount my recent nightmare about zits gone wild. You'd never eat mayonnaise again.